


sometimes life can taste so sweet

by mariewinter



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:09:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9778454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariewinter/pseuds/mariewinter
Summary: The petals are red as blood, the stem greener than anything you've ever seen, the thorns sharp like a knife's edge. You avoid pricking your thumb on them, holding the flower just-so between a few fingers as you twirl it until the petals become a blur of bright, bright red in your vision.





	

**Author's Note:**

> idk

She brings you a rose every time she visits. It's a little routine you two have. The petals are red as blood, the stem greener than anything you've ever seen, the thorns sharp like a knife's edge. You avoid pricking your thumb on them, holding the flower just-so between a few fingers as you twirl it until the petals become a blur of bright, bright red in your vision.

You raise it to your nose and inhale softly, lips curling. “Pretty,” you say, like you always say – it may as well be a rehearsed script – as you keep your eyes on her.

The Mayor smiles. Over the years and the effects they've had on the town, her smile has lost its dark, wicked edge a little, leaving something like a genuine friendliness behind.

You aren't sure if it's better or worse than before.

Like always, you turn around and away from her to set the rose in a vase you constantly keep close by for these occasions especially.

And, like always, when you look back, she's gone.

——

“Who were you?” someone asks, once, curiously, while you're in the diner. And of course they do. The one time, in weeks, that you go anywhere between your home and your workplace, and someone bothers you. Some acquaintance of the Queen, one of many. He looks vaguely familiar, but you can't put a finger on the name. You don't bother trying. “Back in the Enchanted Forest,” he clarifies when you look up at him, arching an eyebrow. There's nothing but genuine interest on his face. He'd be easily dissuaded enough if you just ignored him. Something compels you not to.

“I served the Evil Queen then, and I serve her now,” you say coolly, taking a sip of your tea. You grimace and set the mug down, far away from you on the table. It's already lukewarm, not to mention that the diner air smells sickeningly like breakfast food and you've just realized that the booth you're sitting in is slightly sticky. This is why you prefer staying behind your desk, in the psychiatric ward. There are no sticky seats or lukewarm tea in the psychiatric ward.

And no one bothers you.

He scoffs. Your eyes narrow. “That's rather vague, love.”

Your skin crawls. Love. He thinks he's charming. He is, a little, in that irritating way. You don't like it.

Some would.

You find it disturbing.

“If you want clearer answers, go to her. Not to me. I'm not here for your questions.”

“What _are_ you here for, then?”

“To work,” you say automatically, and then you stand and you head out of the diner. The bell that rings above your head as you shove the door open is too loud, the air too crisp, the sun too bright and the people too many.

You return to work, strangely glad to see the darkness of the ward, the flickering lights, the cup of coffee on your desk and the janitor. You even smile at him. He stares dully back.

You sit down, and you wait.

——

“Pretty,” you sigh, twirling the flower by the stem. You swivel your chair around to plop it in the empty vase. You'll never have a full bouquet, at this rate; by the time the Queen comes around again, the last flower has already wilted to gray, crisp nothingness, and the cycle begins again.

“Something wrong, Nurse?”

As though in response, your stomach growls ravenously. A smile flashes across her pretty face, quick as anything. In a spiral of violet smoke, a plate appears in her hands, and a pastry atop it. Both of your eyebrows raise towards your hairline; you can feel your own incredulity seeping in, but you hardly have any right to refuse such an offering, especially considering that your shift won't be over for another six hours.

(It won't matter, if you go to get food; there won't be any visits, any disasters, the janitor will keep cleaning and the world will keep turning and all will be well in the world, but you have a job to do and that is not to be interrupted by anything. Not even your own body's needs.)

You pick at the flaky pastry. It's warm, buttery, crumbles apart in your hands. You wince at the feeling, wishing for a napkin, but you don't ask for one. Instead, you take a bite. It melts in your mouth. Blueberry. Your favorite.

“How did you—“ you begin, eyes rising towards her face.

“I remember,” she says lightly, and her lips – red as blood – raise at the corners, and keep raising. She cocks a hip, leans against the desk that way. Her hair is longer, you realize; it's the longest it's been since you can remember, since you were both in the Enchanted Forest and her hair was thick and dark and always tied up in some kind of elaborate style befitting her status as wicked royalty. “You liked blueberry pie.”

You blink. _Oh._ “Yes,” you say slowly, considering the statement and realizing it as truth, “I did.”

You smile back. Her eyes brighten a little, like that was exactly what she'd wanted.

Something in you warms. You aren't sure what. You aren't even sure if you _like_ it.

You lick your fingers clean. You know precisely how unsanitary it is, but the feeling of Regina Mills' eyes on you as you do it makes you want to laugh, a little. “Thank you,” you murmur, voice warmer than usual. Or so you try to make it. You aren't quite sure if it works; aren't quite sure if you _want_ it to work. But, above you, her face turns warm in turn.

“Don't forget to water the rose, dear,” she says, and heads back up the stairs. You watch the swaying of her hips, finds that it's almost as soothing as that of a pendulum.

(You forget to call after her that you never forget to water them, but you figure she already knows that by now.)

——

You really should get something to brighten up this room, dear. Flowers, maybe.

I don't have time for flowers. And they wilt.

Do you like roses?

I suppose.

You should get roses, then.

I'll keep that in mind, Madam Mayor.

_After that conversation during the curse, she'd begun to bring you roses. Not frequently, and very irregularly. And that bothered you, for a time; that she would just arrive randomly, give you a flower, ask about the girl in the cell and leave. There was never any warning or conversation or schedule, just a rose handed to you whenever she very well pleased. But then you grew to like it. It gave you something to look forward to, after all._

_She begins to bring you roses weekly. Each and every Monday in the late mornings, like clockwork; it is a routine, like before, but not one that you're used to at all. The old routine used to be mostly meaningless; something to cling to when you felt the tedium of your life settling in, but not something to hope for day in and day out, not something to wait with bated breath for._

_You did not count the days until she arrived again, for she might have stopped arriving altogether one day, and then where would you be? Where all of the other pathetic hopefuls were; drowning in their own misery._

_After the eighth rose, you begin to consider something._

_It feels as though the Evil Queen is courting you._

_What a quaint prospect._

_(It makes you smile._

_And nothing does that.)_

——

In the third week, she brings you a slice of blueberry pie. She plops the plate that it's on down in front of you, right atop a pile of folders as though she's unaware that those folders are not for setting plates of food on.

You mask the surprise with a polite smile. “Not apple?” When the silence stretches wide between the two of you, you begin to think that was a poor joke (it's why you don't make them); but then she huffs a laugh.

“No, dear. Not this time.”

“Careful,” you say, taking a bird-like bite of the pie, “I may begin to think that there'll be a next time.”

She smiles. “Who's to say there won't be?”

You like that idea, so you smile back.

——

“Are you courting me, Madam Mayor?” you ask the next week, when the curiosity grows to a nagging, gnawing feeling in your chest and you can't help but ask the question that's been on your mind since the first pastry.

She raises an eyebrow at you, as though she'd expected more of you. You feel somehow like you should have said something else entirely, and you're disappointed in yourself for it – but you recover, and wait patiently. 

Regina Mills smiles. “I'm not _not_ courting you,” she says.

“Oh,” you say thoughtfully, scraping the tines of your fork across the delicate plate. “Good,” you add after a moment, lips twitching, and take another bite of the pastry. The mayor watches you swallow, and then when you look up at her, lips parted to say something, she leans down and kisses you.

She tastes like lipstick, a little like cinnamon. Not apples, like you'd expected. (Like you'd dreamed.) “Oh,” you say when she draws away. Her smile is bright and glittering, full of gleaming white teeth.

She licks her lips. “Enjoy the pie, dear,” she says, and leaves.

You watch her hips sway like the very same pendulum as she goes, and you think that you're developing a fondness for the Mayor.


End file.
